


Skeptics and Believers

by Belladonna_Q



Category: Sherlock (TV), The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Aliens, Bottom John, Case Fic, Conspiracy Theories, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, M/M, Overprotective Sherlock, Rough Sex, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladonna_Q/pseuds/Belladonna_Q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt by atbackground:</p><p>      X-files AU (with John as Scully and Sherlock as Mulder)</p><p>A/N: You don't need to have watched the X-Files to enjoy this fic. </p><p> </p><p>-----<br/>“Oh, I have plenty of theories.” He says with a smile. “Now tell me, Doctor. Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Partners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atbackground](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atbackground/gifts).



John pressed the button for the basement level with heavy trepidation, brushing a nervous hand down his tie. The basement? Who was kept in the basement? What kind of Agent was this man?

A full thirty seconds later and the door chimed as the heavy doors parted.

“Sorry! Nobody down here but London’s most unwanted.” Came a heavy baritone voice, muffled by a wall, immediately as the door chimed again.

“I em.” John glanced around the lift door before stepping out, eyes flicking up at the pathetic flickering of a dying florescent bulb in the hallway. “Eh—Agent Holmes? I’m um. Doctor John Watson. I’m hoping to be assigned to work with—“

John froze as he rounded the corner, the wildly eclectic office startling him. It was nothing like the cubicles on the upper floors, which were neatly stacked and organized. This could only be defined as a detonation. Index books, binders and various bric-a-brac, scattered and hanging about the walls and shelves. Posters strewn about the walls, tacked up with cello-tape which had peeled from the corners, leaving them hanging pitifully. _Lord, give me strength..._

Agent Sherlock Holmes wore a suit, an impeccable one John noted, slim and tailored which fit tight across all parts of his body, accentuated even more so by his hunched form in the chair, glaring into a microscope.

“How’s your chemistry, Doctor?” He asked, fingers deftly adjusting the dials.

“Uh,” He blinked, trying to recover. “Good. Organic was my strong suit.” John clarified, daring a few steps further into the office.

 Sherlock glanced up, pushing himself up and off the chair.

“You’ve been assigned to me?” He asked, John detected a suspicious tilt to the tone.

“I would like to be, yes. I have uh,” John looked and turned the page in his hand. “I’m requesting to be.”

“And they gave you _my_ name?”

“Yes.” _No need to tell the man he was the only one left,_ John thought to himself.

“And who exactly did you piss off?”

John blinked, nearly barking a laugh. “Uh, no one Agent Holmes. I’m actually looking forward to working with you.”

“Oh really? I was under the impression that you were sent to spy on me.” Sherlock said seriously, crossing his arms.

John bristled, defensive. “If you have any doubt about my qualification of credentials I can—“

“Oh, no need Doctor. Army doctor, is that right? Looking to get into the private sector. God knows that’s a good decision for you financially. Looking to continue a ‘Captain’ status by taking a supervisory position within a lab, no doubt pathology. Did they offer you your own lab? Don’t answer that, of course they did. But not without the field experience… Ah yes... There’s the rub.” He ended absently, putting a hand to his chin. As if struck with a revelation, Sherlock began pawing through his papers piled on his desk.

“Ah, read my file already? They tell you I was coming?” John asked.

“Nope.” Sherlock responded, popping the ‘P’ loudly as his attention remained at his desk, hands sweeping along the surface, letters, envelopes and papers skittering about.

“Eh, help you find something?” John asked, frowning at the disheveled display

“No I--ah _here_ it is.” The man bent low and popped back up, wallet sized leather object in his hand.

John blinked. “ID badge?”

“Mm, yes. Must have misplaced it.” The man responded vaguely, tucking it into his inner jacket pocket.

John chuckled as he pointed. “Uh yeah. Bit important, that. Might want to hang onto it. That’s a write up waiting to happen.”

“Don’t be ludicrous, it’s not _my_ badge. This one has higher clearance. Now.” Sherlock clapped his hands together with a sharp strike. “Let me show you something.”

“Not your…” How John resisted the urge not to rub his head with his budding headache he had no idea. _Let it go John. Only a month with this nutter and then you get the lab all to yourself._

Before he could respond, Sherlock pulled a thick, blue folder from a pile of other, thick blue folders and spun it around to face John, cracking it open with a flick. With a wary glance up at Sherlock, John focused his attention to the open pages of photos.

Autopsy photo, John zeroed in immediately. Female, young, wispy blonde hair, pallid on the metal slab. Her dark-circled closed eyes a stark contrast to her terribly pale body.

“Dartmoor female, age twenty-one, no explainable cause of death.” Sherlock began without prompting. “Autopsy shows nothing.”

“Nothing?” John asked, glancing up at the Agent.

“Zip.” Sherlock stated, popping the ‘P’ hard again, flipping the page.

Second photo is her turned onto her stomach, hair pulled back, gaunt shoulder blades and neck exposed.

“There are, however, these two distinct marks on her lower back. Doctor Watson, can you ID these marks?”

John took a breath and leaned in further, bringing a finger to the page. “Ehm. Needle puncture, maybe. Animal bite? Electrocution of some kind.”

“You said your chemistry was up to standard,” Sherlock twisted and reached into the microscope, withdrawing the slide. “This is the substance found in the surrounding tissue.”

Carefully, John took it from his hand, holding it up to the light and tilting.

“Well… Definitely organic. I don’t know, some kind of synthetic protein.” He said, trying to sound confident as he handed the slide back.

Sherlock gave a shrug. “Not a clue. Never seen it before. In fact, it’s never been seen _anywhere_.”

John frowned as Sherlock grinned at him, turning the page again.

A young man of similar age, strewn across a set of railroad tracks face down. His tan shirt is lifted, exposing his neck.

“Two marks again,” John said with a frown, looking up at Sherlock.

The Agent nodded. “Indeed. One mile from our dead woman.” With a slap, he closed the file, nearly catching John’s nose in the process and pulls it away. John straightened back up. 

“You have a theory?” John asked, grimacing slightly as Sherlock merely tossed the file back into a pile.

“Oh, I have plenty of theories.” He says with a smile. “Now tell me, Doctor. Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?”

John huffed a snort, waiting for the punchline. When none came, Sherlock’s face meticulously blank, John frowned. Sherlock’s eyes were bright, carefully tracking John’s budding response to such a question.

“Logically? I would have to say no.”

Sherlock nodded, as if expecting the answer. “Explain your logic.” He responded immediately.

“Well, given the distances needed to travel from the far reaches of space, the energy requirements would exceed a spacecraft’s capabilities that—“

“Conventional wisdom.” The man intercut, waving his hand dismissively, circling back to the other side of his desk. “You know this Dartmoor woman. She’s the fourth person in her graduating class to die under mysterious circumstances. Now, when convention and science offer us no answer, might we not finally turn to the fantastic as a _plausibility_?”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Well,” He began carefully. “The poor girl died of _something_. If it was natural causes it’s plausible that there was something missed in the post-mortem. If she was murdered it’s plausible there was a sloppy investigation. What I find fantastic, Agent Holmes, is that there are any answers beyond the realm of science. The answers are _there_ , you just have to know where to _look_.”

“Quiet right, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock grinned, plucking the assignment form from John’s hand and lifting a pen from his desk.

“Get packed, John.” He stated briskly, scribbling a signature on the bottom line. “We leave for Dartmoor at 8:00am.”

 


	2. X Marks the Spot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a case-heavy fic, with a developing relationship with John and Sherlock. The plot of this story is taken from the pilot episode of The X-Files.
> 
> You don't need to be an X-Files fan to enjoy the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed Cardiff to Dartmoor once I decided to continue this story. That has been updated in the previous chapter.
> 
> Thanks to PrettyArbitrary for the correction, MI5/MI6 was changed in the story to NCA, the National Crime Agency, aka "British FBI".

_Nineteen Days Ago_

_Dartmoor_

“Detective, I put the time of death between eight and twelve hours ago. No visible –watch your step there-- no visible cause, no signs of battery or sexual assault. All we have is this.”

The coroner circles the body of the young woman, treading the wet leaves with slick crunches. He squats by her shoulders and reaches, pulling down the collar down of shear periwinkle nightgown.

“Incisions?” The other asks, leaning over and squinting.

“They’re raised.” The other remarks, dropping his hand. “Dual marks just on her nape.”

The detective nods, face unreadable. “Can you turn her over?”

The coroner nods to his assistant, who knees down, uncaring of the wet terrain staining into his dark trousers and grips her shoulder with a gloved hand, rolling her over gently.

“Jesus. Miranda Ark.” The detective breathes, bringing a hand to his mouth.

“Is that a positive ID?” The coroner asks, picking up his clipboard and clicking his pen.

The detective nods, collecting himself. “She went to school with my son.”

“By the looks and condition of her feet, she was running. We could do a reverse track, see where she came from?” The assistant adds.

The detective gives a disinterested look and turns, walking away from the body.

“Your son, was that the class of ’09?” The coroner calls out, as he stands. “Stephen!” He suddenly shouts, ignoring the jump of his assistant. “Stephen, is it happening again!?”

The detective pulls his coat tight and keeps walking.

\-------

_Present Day_

The train is packed and John sighs as he realizes he’s done and left his headphones at his flat. _Brilliant_ , he thinks. _School children and inane chatter_. He brings up the file to his lap, the worn blue one that Agent Holmes had shown him the day before, flipping through pages. Beside him, Holmes flicks through his phone, typing quickly, flicking again, before typing some more. Goodness knows what the man is doing, but he certainly seems engrossed and John isn’t about to interrupt.

John stops at the top of the official first page of the autopsy, focusing on the name at the top of the page.

“Dr. Carter…” He murmurs to himself, as the drink trolley passes him by.

“Mm. Yes, the coroner.” Sherlock suddenly adds, eyes never leaving his mobile.

“You paying attention?” John asks, closing the file.

“Yes, of course. Always paying attention. You were on page 21.”

“How did you—“

“I see everything, John.” At that, the man flicks the top of his iPhone and brings it to his lap, head motioning to the file. “You read it last night?”

John nods. “Yeah. You didn’t tell me this was a closed investigation. What are we doing Agent Holmes?”

“Sherlock, please. And its not closed. I obviously had it re-opened.”

“Why?”

“Einstein's Twin Paradox, A New Interpretation. John Watson Senior Thesis.”

“I…” John’s mouth hangs open. “How does my paper correlate to—“

“Quite the credentials, rewriting Einstein.” Sherlock continues, glancing out the window.

“You read my thesis?” John asks, tilting his head. “When on earth did you have time to do that?”

“Last night.” The agent says nonchalantly.

“And?”

“I liked it, actually. I found it amusing.”

“ _Amusing_.” John repeats, sounding more baffled than offended as he crosses his arms. “How so?”

“It’s just in my line of work, the law of physics rarely apply.”

With a long stare, John turns his head and gives a shake. “I did some checking on you too.” He says.

“Oh?” Sherlock asks, fingers drumming on the armrest between them. “Find anything interesting?”

“You’re an Oxford educated psychologist, who wrote a monograph on serial killers and the occult. Your work single handedly helped catch the killer Marlon Grant in ‘06. Generally thought of as the best analyst in the violent crimes section.”

“Mm. What else?” Watching John’s mouth suddenly snap shut Sherlock grins. “Come now John. There’s always something.”

John quirks his mouth a bit. “Well, did some checking. Around the office. You have a …reputation.”

“Do tell.”

“You’re impossible to work with. Arrogant. Disrespectful. ‘A right nutter’ one agent stated. Oh, and at your name mentioned one support staff ran off in tears. And blimey, the nickname.”

“Which one?”

“The one I heard was… ‘Spooky’.”

Sherlock huffed air out of his nose quickly, clearly humoured. “Suppose that is better than others. Not very creative.” At this he sounds disappointed. “After that did you think about canceling our partnership for this temporary endeavor?”

John blinks, before a grin spreads across his face and he laughs, much to Sherlock’s consternation. “Right nutter indeed. You think I’d go down into that basement before asking ‘round?” He shakes his head. “I looked you up and asked about before I ever went down that lift.”

Sherlock stares, and opens his mouth to start, before shutting it. “So, you mean to say…”

“I found it all _amusing_ , Agent Holmes.” John says as he re-opens the file. “And… No, you know what? You were the only one left available to be matched with a temporary but that’s fine because I would have chosen you anyway. You’re brilliant. I mean, Christ. Amazing. That deduction you did on me in your office.” At this John shakes his head, clearly impressed. “Brilliant and amazing. So, for a field operative opportunity, Sherlock, I am very pleased to be working with you.” At that John opens the file and deliberately plops it onto his lap, starting to re-read from page one.

Sherlock blinks once, before silently turning back to the window, frowning.

\-------

Sherlock finds himself cutting off the windshield wipers right as they cross the wooden “Welcome to Dartmoor” sign, rain letting up.

John holds his phone in his lap, frowning. “Signal is sketchy at best.” He murmurs, lifting it to the window in vain.

“It should get better closer we get to the town.” Sherlock replies, shifting gears.

“So,” John starts, giving up on his phone and pocketing it. “Tell me what you’ve gleaned from this investigation so far. That isn’t in the official report.”

“NCA got involved after the first three deaths when locals failed to turn up any evidence. Agents came, spent a week, enjoyed a little of the local brew which I’ve been told is just to die for, if you’ll pardon the expression.” At this John smirks as Sherlock continues. “Then, with no explanation, they were called back in to London. Zero explanation, mind. The case was then reclassified and buried under the X-Files, until I dug it up last week.

“I'm sorry, the X-files?” John asks.

“The cases I tend to work on.” Sherlock explains. “The ones no one else can solve. You know,” he gives a smile. "'Spooky' ones."

“Riiight,” John bites his lip, worrying it a bit. “So you dug it up and, what? Found something no one else had?”

“Mm.” Sherlock responds in the affirmative.

“The autopsy reports on the first three victims show no unidentified marks or tissue samples. But those reports were signed by a different medical examiner than the latest victim.”

“Very good, John.”

“Better than you expected or better than you hoped?”

“Well.” Sherlock says with a sniff. “I’ll let you know when we get past the easy part.”

John chuckles, shaking his head. “So what, the medical examiner is a suspect, yeah?”

“Well we won’t know until we do a little _grave digging_.”

“Why do I feel like you’re being literal…”

“Because I am.” Sherlock deadpans. “I’ve arranged to exhume one of the other victims’ bodies to see if we can get a tissue sample to match the other girl’s. You aren’t squimish about that sort of thing, are you Doctor?”

“I would imagine not. But I’ve never had the pleasure.”

Rapidly and loudly the vehicle radio snaps on, squealing and cycling through channels quickly at a blaring volume.

“Fuck!” John shouts, one hand to his ear as his hand flings out to the dials. He twists, the pitch heightening. He slams his fist twice into the console, but the blaring only gets louder.

Sherlock grips the steering wheel and hunches himself over it, looking out and up into the sky as he begins to compress the breaks.

“What is going on Sherlock!?” John shouts, giving up on turning the radio off and putting both hands to his ears. Sherlock throws the Landrover into park, the vehicle lurching as he twists and pulls the keys free, the radio still scrambling frequencies.

“Sherlock—Sherlock!” John calls out as the agent flings open the door and rounds the vehicle, flinging open the back area and searching through his luggage.

“Fucking Christ—“ John mutters as he kicks the door open, glancing for traffic _because Sherlock stopped them in the bloody road_ , the maniac, as he follows the man around the car and watches as Sherlock roots through his bag.

“Here!” Sherlock calls to himself, gripping something in his hand as he darts into the road.

 _Bloody mental!_ John stares as the agent bounds into the road and begins shaking the object in his hand—spray paint?—And sure enough, leans and sprays a large, yellow X in the middle of the road.

The radio cuts out so suddenly, John jumps, spinning and glaring at the console through the open hatch. Sherlock walks back, capping the can and tossing it back into his bag.

“Sherlock,” John begins slowly, trying to calm himself. “What the _hell_ is going on?”

Sherlock reaches and pulls the hatch closed. “Oh, you know. Probably nothing.” He says with a shrug. With another glance at the sky, he motions his head toward the front. “Best get in. We’re almost to town.”

\-------

_Saint Joseph’s Cemetery_

_Dartmoor_  

John shivers slightly at the pick up in wind, coat tightening around his body as he looks up at the crane. A number of men stand around, watching it operate when two men step out from the crowd, walking briskly up to Sherlock and John.

“Mr. Holmes?” One of the men asks, holding out his hand and Sherlock grasps it in a firm shake. “Daniel Carlson, Coroner’s Office.”

Sherlock gives a nod as he releases the man’s hand. “Yes, hello. Mr. Carlson this is my partner, Doctor Watson.

John gives a nod, “Hello.”

“How soon can we get started?” Sherlock asks, motioning toward the site.

“Well, we’re ready to go, Sir.”

“Oh, good. Go on then.”

Carlson lifts his hand, waving at the crane operator. “Okay, Mark!” The operator nods as the crane begins to move.

“Were you able to arrange for an examination facility?” Sherlock asks, as the four of them begin to walk up the hill. “I would like Doctor Watson to do the examination.”

“Yeah,” Carlson nods. “I got somethin’ for you.”

“Oi!” At the loud shout, the men turn, watching a lorrey pull up, nearly knocking a worker down.

A man opens and slams the door, stepping out. A teenage girl is in the backseat, rolling down the window.

“Papa!”

“Stay in the cab Ellie!” He yells at her, as he continues to stalk toward the three.

“Excuse me!” He calls out, pointing in their direction.

Sherlock straightens. “Ah. Doctor Carter.” He murmurs to John.

“Doctor Carter?” John whispers quickly. “The one from the autopsy report?”

Sherlock gives a brief nod as he places his hands into his coat pocket, almost bracing himself for an onslaught.

“I don’t know who you —Ellie I said stay in the _fucking_ car, girl! I don’t know who you people are. You think you can just come up here, and do whatever you damn well please, don’t you!?” The man’s pudgy face is stark red, eyes dark and beaming.

“Doctor Carter…” Carlson begins.

“Shut up Dan!” The man snarls.

“Doctor Carter,” Sherlock begins diplomatically. “You must have been informed of our intentions to come up here.”

“I damn well have not! We’ve been on holiday!” He says, throwing a hand demonstratively at his vehicle and daughter.

“Right,” Sherlock gives a nod. “Well, that answers the question that we had. Why you hadn’t done the most recent autopsy yourself. You’re aware that a tissue sample was taken from the girl’s body.”

The man’s red cheeks sallow white. “Wha—wha—What’s the insinuation here? Are you saying I missed something in those other kids’ exams?”

“We’re not insinuating anything, sir.” John interjects calmly, casting Sherlock a look and taking a step forward.

The man snarls, and reaches, gripping John by his arm. On reflex, Sherlock reaches and grasps the man’s elbow. “That’s enough!” Sherlock barks, tightening his hold.

“Listen here,” Carter bites back. “If you’re going to make an accusation, then you’d better have something to back it up.”

“Papa!”

The man releases and John takes a swallow as he steps away, the girl running up to them.

“Ellie I told you—“

“Please, papa. Let’s just go home. Please. I want to go home.” Her lip quivers, short blond hair framing her petite face, cheeks flushed from the cold.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, the man turns and points at Sherlock. He clenches his jaw and wordlessly turns toward his daughter, stalking back toward his vehicle.

John lets out a breath. “Mate obviously needed a longer holiday.” He mutters and Sherlock snorts, shaking his head.

“Alright?” Sherlock asks.

“Hm? Oh. Yeah, yeah fine.”

“Come on then, let’s take a look at the gravesite.”

Soft earth dumps out from the crane’s mouth, just above the coffin. John has a file in his hand, reading loudly to Sherlock over the roar of the machine.

“Kyle Marith was the third victim. After graduating college he spent time in a state mental hospital treated for post-adolescent schizophrenia.”

Sherlock nods. “Marith actually confessed to the first two murders. He pleaded to be locked up but he couldn’t produce any evidence that he committed the crimes. Did you happen to read the cause of death?”

“Ehm,” John searches. “Exposure. His body was found in the woods after escaping the hospital.”

“Exposure,” Sherlock says incredulously, shaking his head. “Tell me John, how does a twenty-one year old man die in the woods after six hours on a warm night in July?”

“I got it!” A worker calls out from down the hill. John closes the file and they both head down the hill. There’s a snap and a crack as a wire on the strap breaks free, the coffin tumbling end over end.

“Look out!” Someone calls and it rolls down the wet grass. With a crack it crashes against a moss covered tombstone, stopping its progression, breaking open.

Sherlock rushes up, but Carlson grabs his arm and pulls him back.

“This isn’t official procedure.”

Sherlock huffs, “Really?” And pulls his arm free as he comes up to the broken casket. A mummified body is inside, desiccated and grayish. Thin, very long arms stretch out awkwardly, spilling out into the field. A worker gasps and covers his mouth, nauseous as Sherlock takes a step back and looks to John, whose mouth is open, staring.

“Sherlock,” John starts slowly. “That... is not human.”

Sherlock turns to the crowd of workers, “Seal this up, right now! Nobody sees or touches this. Nobody!”

John reaches and slams the lid shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. More down time with Sherlock and John in the next chapter.  
> \------
> 
> If you follow me on my Tumblr, you'll have read all my fics were deleted by my roommate. So, that means updates on Cybernetic Conflict, Survival Instinct, Acquiring Interest and the sequel to Beats of Three I had all been working on are gone. So, I have to start over, which is a little difficult emotionally, but I am determined. 
> 
> I found I had to start somewhere, and taking the X-Files and Sherlock, both of which I love, and writing a fun little case fic can help me start writing again so thanks for bearing with me. 
> 
> belladonnaq.tumblr.com


	3. Lights, Camera, Action

 John adjusts the headlamp, brushing a hand down the medical scrub and watching Marith’s body laid out on the slab. There’s a flash of light, and with a squint he turns to Sherlock, large camera in hand.

“John… Do you know what this could mean?” The agent asks, glancing at the camera screen and adjusting the flashbulb.

John purses his lips together, keeping mute on that matter, as he picks up the handheld tape and presses ‘record’.

“Subject is a hundred and fifty-six centimeters in length, weight 3.75 stone in extremis. Corpse is in advance stages of decay and desiccation. Distinguishing feature include large ocular cavities, oblate cranium…Indicates subject isn’t,” At this he sighs and glances at Sherlock, tightening his hold on the recorder. “Isn’t human. Look, Sherlock can you point that flash away from me, please?” He says in an exasperated tone, snapping the button free and tossing the recorder down on the counter.

Sherlock lowers the camera and motions his head. “If it’s not human, Doctor, then what would be your best estimation?”

John sighs. “It’s mammalian. My guess? A chimpanzee. Or something from the ape family, possibly an orangutan.”

Sherlock pulls a face. “Buried in the city cemetery in Kyle Marith’s grave? Try telling that to the good townsfolk, or to Kyle Marith’s family.” He plucks the memory card from the camera and pockets it, tossing the camera down with a clack. “I want tissue samples and x-rays.”

John starts. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’d like blood work and toxicology, and a full genetic work-up.”

“Sherlock—“

“What we can’t do here, we’ll order to go.”

“You can’t _honestly_ believe this is some kind of… _extraterrestrial_.” John practically spits it like it’s the most absurd word in existence. Sherlock’s eyes narrow, jaw clenching. “This is just somebody’s idea of a sick joke!” He finishes.

Sherlock looks away, down the room, before turning back. “We can do those x-rays here, can’t we? Is there any reason why we can’t do them right now?” He asks, a bit harder.

“Christ.” John snaps a glove off and tosses it. He misses the rubbish bin and sighs. “Yes, I can.” He concedes.

“Good. Good then. ” Sherlock nods once. “I’m not crazy, John.” He says quietly, turning toward the door. “I have the same doubts you do.”

John watches the door swing shut.

\------

John digs a knuckle into his eye, glancing at the small, digital clock on his motel nightstand, blue lettering illuminating 21:45. He yawns and cracks his knuckles as he turns to the recorder, pressing play and moving over to his laptop again, transcribing.

“Official laboratory inspection of the body and x-ray analysis confirms homologous but possibly mutated mammalian physiology.” His voice says to himself as he short hands his words on the computer. “However, does not account for the small, unidentified object found in the subject’s nasal cavity. A grey, metallic implant form…” John reaches and snaps the recorder off. He pulls from his pocket a small, plastic tube, capped, containing a small metallic object.

“What _are_ you,” John murmurs, turning it over and watching the small object tumble in its plastic container.

A knock at the door jerks him up and he quickly pockets the vial. “Who is it?”

“The King of England.” Comes the deadpan voice behind the door.

John snorts, rising from his chair. “Blimey.” He mutters to himself as he swings the door open. Sherlock looks… casual. No suit, but still fashionable with a button up with a pair of dark jeans. John feels wholly underdressed in sweats and a T-shirt, even if it is nearly 10:00pm.

“You know, we don’t actually have a king,” John says, putting a hand on his hip.

Sherlock looks away briefly, “Oh. Mm. Slip of the mind.” He clears his throat. “Were you sleeping?”

“Mm? Oh, no. Just uh,” he waves his hand obscurely. “Writing up notes. For the report.”

“Right. Your report.  You need to submit that in as part of your fieldwork program. Did the tests come back on the metal object you found in the nasal cavity?”

“No, not yet. I’ll let you know as soon as they do.”

Sherlock gives a nod, clapping his hands together. “Dinner?”

John blinks. “I uh. Pardon?”

“I found a quiet Thai restaurant across from the cemetery. Little hole in the wall place.”

“Uh,” John glances down at his pajama bottoms. “Not really dressed for it Sherlock. And it’s 10:00pm.”

“They’re open until 11. I really doubt they have a coat and tie requirement.”

“I’m really kind of done in, actually. Was headed to hit the shower before bed.”

Sherlock pulls back a little; John hadn’t realized how far forward he’d come. “Right. Right then.”

“Maybe tomorrow?” John offers, something odd twisting in his gut at the twinge of disappointment flicking across Sherlock’s face.

“No. I mean yes, right. Tomorrow evening. Have a good night, John.”

“You too, Sherlock.”

\------

The psychiatric hospital is three kilometers away from the center of town. It’s all gray and glass, moss creeping up the side and windows smudged with dirt and mist. Sherlock shoots John a wordless look as they simultaneously enter the doors.  

They meet with Doctor O’Leary, a scruffy man with a misshapen beard and moon shaped spectacles.

“Ah yea yea.” He nods, hands behind his back as Sherlock and John stride alongside him. “Kyle Marith was a patient of mine, yes. I oversaw his treatment for just over a ear for clinical schizophrenia. Kyle had an inability to grasp reality. He seemed to suffer some kind of post-traumatic stress.”

“Is that something you’ve seen before?” Sherlock asked.

“Hm, yes. I’ve treated similar cases.”

“Were any of those cases Kyle Marith’s classmates?”

The man stops walking, looking up toward a skylight. “Yes, yes.” He nods.

Sherlock glances at John. “Doctor O’Leary, we’re trying to find a connection to these deaths. Did you treat any of these children with hypnosis?”

“No, I did not.” The man responds quickly, looking suddenly ruffled as if offended.

“Are you treating any of these children now?” John asks.

“Currently? Yes, I’m treating Martin Bigsby and Peggy Carr. Both have been long term live-in patients.”

“They’re here? At this hospital?” John asks to confirm.

“That’s right. Going on four years now.”

“Would it be at all possible to speak to them?”

“Hnn. You might find it difficult. Certainly in Martin Bigby’s case.”

He turns to the door at his left, opening and entering. Sherlock and John follow

Martin Bigsby lays prone in the hospital bed. His maple eyes are open, but there’s no sign of life except for the pulse read-out on the monitor. John approaches and quickly scans the charts at the table, observing the readings on the screen. 

A girl, wispy with a crop of black hair, sits in a wheelchair next to the bed, a book in her lap. A nurse is changing the sheets of the empty bed adjacent.

O’Leary sighs. “Martin is experiencing what we call a waking coma.”

“Waking coma?” Sherlock asks.

“Functionally, his brainwaves are flat and he’s persistent vegetative.” John answers, putting the chart down and approaching the duo, turning to the doctor. “How did it happen?”

“Both he and Peggy were involved in an automobile accident on the main road.” He glances over to the girl. “Peggy?” He calls softly.

She doesn’t blink, but her thin lips flex slightly. “…aerial…”

“Peggy, we have some visitors. Would you like to talk with them a moment?”

She swallows, her throat flexing hard. “Martin wants me to read to him now.” She murmurs, looking down at her book. “It’s not sand. It’s dark.”

Sherlock approaches quietly, and John nearly reaches out to stop him but something on the agent’s face stops him, his hand lowering.

Sherlock knees down directly in front of her.

“Does he like it when you read to him?” He asks gently, motioning toward the book.

She nods, glancing down to Sherlock briefly. Her eyes water. “Yes. Marty needs me close.”

Sherlock stands and walks back over to John and Doctor O’Leary.

“I’m wondering if we can do a cursory medical exam on Peggy.” He begins, glancing down at the girl.

As if struck with pain, Peggy snarls and throws the book down, tipping over a food tray.

“Peggy! Honey, no!” The nurse stumbles over from the adjacent bed.

“Get an orderly!” O’Leary calls, hitting a button.

“Jesus,” John backs up as two orderlies rush in. The girl growls and grabs her nose, blood streaming between her fingers.

“Honey oh what’re you doing?” The nurse cries out, trying to grab the girl’s arm.

“Peggy!” Sherlock shouts out, startling John even further. “No one is going to hurt you!”

With a cry, the girl collapses in a heap off the wheelchair, hands falling free from her blood coated face, fingers smudged with red.

“This is an emergency.” O’Leary calls out into the hallway.

Sherlock lunges and John shouts out something, he’s sure of it, as the agent lifts the back of Peggy’s shirt. Twin bumps on the back of her neck. Sherlock drops the shirt and turns to show John, who looks back at him frozen in shock.

The nurse grabs the two of them, “Get out, leave. Now.”

“Stop!” Peggy cries out, sobbing. “Please stop!”

“Okay. Okay Peggy, you’re alright.” Doctor O’Leary says in a soothing tone.

John grips the back of Sherlock’s coat and drags him to the hallway. When they’ve reached mid-way, he releases and angrily walks down to the exit. Sherlock jogs after him.

“John,” he reaches, but the Doctor spins and the agent recoils from the anger in his eyes.

“How did you know? Hm?” He asks, breathing in an angry breath. “How did you know that girl would have those marks?”

“Oh I don’t know. Lucky guess?” Sherlock offers, his tone sarcastic.

“Damnit Sherlock! Cut the shit! What is going on here? What do you know about those marks!? What _are_ they?”

“Why?” Sherlock barks back. “So you can put it down in your little report? I don’t think you’re ready for what I think!”

“God _damnit_ Sherlock.” He looks like he’s about to kick something, but nothing is close enough to connect other than the wall. “We’re a team, we’re partners. That’s the whole _point_ of this bloody thing. I’m here to solve a case. I want the truth!”

“The truth? Alright fine. I believe those kids have been abducted.”

John nods, biting his bottom lip hard. “Fine. Alright fine. By who.”

“By _what_.”

“Sherlock! You don’t really believe that!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have a _better_ explanation, _Doctor_?”

John takes a shuddering breath. “I’ll buy that girl is suffering from some kind of pronounced psychosis. Whether it’s organic or a result of those… those _marks_ on her neck, I can’t say. But to say that they’ve been riding around in _flying saucers_ , that’s crazy, Sherlock. There’s _nothing_ to support that.”

“Nothing scientific, you mean.” Sherlock snaps back.

“There has _got_ to be an explanation. Look, we’ve got four victims. All of them died in or near woods. They found Miranda Ark’s body in the forest in her pajama’s, ten miles from her house. How’d she get there? What were those kids doing out there in that forest?”

Sherlock sighs and steels himself. “Would you like to find out?”

\------

John hits his torch several times, cursing as the damn thing flickers in his hand.  He glances over to Sherlock, who signals for them to continue walking, twigs breaking under their feet as they enter deeper into the woods.

 _This is crazy, what you’re doing is crazy_ his mind repeats to him, over and over, even as his heart hammers with excitement.

He glances again to Sherlock, barely able to make out his form in the low light of dusk, a compass in his hand.

“It won’t stop spinning,” he murmurs to himself, before reaching his hand out and showing John. Looking down, John swallows as he sees the needle spin counter clockwise, before spinning wildly clockwise and repeating.

Something crunches under his feet like glass and John freezes. It’s dirt, he realizes as he bends down but iced solid and crystallized. He picks up a handful and turns it over in his hand.

There’s a rumbling, just over the hill. John stands up and points his torch to where Sherlock---is not. He’s gone. John spins 360; searching, ready to call out when he’s tackled blindly and shoved to the dirt.

He struggles, but not before a hand is over his mouth. “ _Stop it! It’s me. It’s me!”_ Sherlock hisses to him, releasing him but pushing him into the ground.

“ _What is happening_?” John hushes back and his heart hammers doubly as he realizes Sherlock has his weapon drawn, the safety off and at the ready.

“ _Stay down.”_ He growls.

The rumbling grows louder, John focusing on the tiniest bit of stone in front of him that begins to clatter and vibrate on the ground violently.

John closes his eyes, and it’s at that moment Sherlock launches to his feet, gripping John’s hand and pulling him up. “Run!”

John stumbles, blindly trusting the agent as he grips the other’s hand and follows, the rumbling behind him growing loud, the pounding of his blood in his ears making him light headed. _Don’t look back don’t look back don’t look_

They make it to the road, stumbling to the Landrover, huffing sharp inhales of cold air, their puffed breathing coming out in unison.

“Jesus,” John manages, clinging to the side of the car, the rumbling ceased but his head pounding. “Just what the fuck was that?”

Sherlock takes a swallow of air and shakes his head. “There was a man.” He says after a moment. “Out by himself. Shot gun.” He makes a motion with his hands that John can’t interpret. “That’s when the noise started. Did you feel it?” He asks, holstering his gun.

“The vibrating? Oh yeah.” John sniffs in the cold. “We should really go though.” He says quickly, looking about.

“What the hell was he doing out there by himself.” Sherlock mutters, utterly annoyed that his hand is shaking.

John steps forward, “Maybe looking for this?” He out stretches his hand, the glassed dirt in his palm.

Sherlock cocks his head at it, holding John’s hand in his own, using the other to shine his torch. “What do you think it is?” John asks carefully.

“Mm. Campfire?”

John considers. “Take out your compass.”

Sherlock’s head whips up to John’s and he grins, releasing John’s hand and digging into his pocket, pulling out the small circle. It spins wildly in his palm, counter clockwise and furious.

“It was all over the ground.” John adds.

Sherlock nods. “Careful, place it in your pockets for safe keeping.” He says. “God, you _brilliant_ man.”

John dumps the dirt into his jacket pocket and looks down as he wipes his palm against his jeans. “Who? M--?”

He’s cut off as Sherlock presses himself to him, hands cupped around John’s face and lips pressed to his own. John freezes, breath locked in his chest. Sherlock is warm, and unusually soft for someone so…angular. He blinks as he feels the press of the compass into his cheek, still tucked into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s lips move, coaxing and John relaxes fractionally as he feels Sherlock gently cup his wrist, thumb moving over his palm in soothing circles.

As quickly as they had connected, they part and John takes a much needed breath, mind spinning, compass-like. Sherlock drops John’s hand and, to his credit, looks properly mortified.

“That wasn’t. I mean to say. I hadn’t…”

“It’s fine.” John finds himself saying. Because it is. It is fine. Out here in the darkness, in haunted woods and mad men with shotguns, it’s all fine. “Sherlock, really.” He says again, more gently, as the man begins to pace. John looks back into the woods. “Look. If it’s all the same to you, if we’re going to deal with this can it be in the car, driving _away_ from this place?”

Sherlock nods and motions his head to the car. “Of course. It’s unlocked.”

“Thank you.” John says, pulling the handle and hoping in, Sherlock jumping into the driver’s seat, keys in hand.

He starts the car, putting it into first and John relaxes a bit as they start down the road.

John stares out the side window, only his reflection staring back at him.

“I’d like to try again.” Sherlock says quietly, glancing at his direction.

John throws him a scathing look. “We’re not going back there.”

“What? No. Not that. Well, possibly that… But I meant the other… thing.”

“The other thing when you kissed me.” John clarifies, slightly amused.

Sherlock winces as if punched in the solar plexus. He glances down at the dashboard. 21:12 it flashes. “Dinner?” He asks suddenly, unprompted. “You did say ‘tomorrow’.”

“I did.” John agrees, keeping his face carefully blank. “I do like Thai, by the way.” He gives a smirk.

There’s a _roar_ , and the car jerks violently. Light engulfs them, filling the cabin. Sherlock can feel the car stall and die and he panics, reaching out and finding John’s shirt in the blinding light, gripping on tightly. _No no no…Not him not him you **bastards**._

The car stutters to a stop and Sherlock pulls John to his chest, feeling the other man grip his back tightly.

Just as suddenly, the light is gone like a switch being thrown and when Sherlock parts from John he blinks rapidly trying to focus.

“Alright? Are you alright?” He asks quickly, touching John’s throat and shoulder, trying to assess. Without being able to see.

“Yeah, yeah Sherlock, I’m fine.” He pulls back and clears his throat. “Fucking hell, what _was_ that?”

Sherlock wobbles the gear shifts and turns the key. The car does _nothing_. “We’ve lost power.” He says, his heart beating in his chest it’s starting to hurt. “Brakes, steering, everything.”

John has grabbed Sherlock’s torch off the floor and flicks it, casting shadows about the cabin.

Light glints across Sherlock’s watch and he freezes.

“John,” he says panicked. “It’s past 11.”

“Does that mean no dinner?” John asks in a slightly high voice that indicates he’s stressed and joking is a coping mechanism.

 Sherlock swallows, both hands shaking now. “It was just after 9pm when I asked you to dinner. Just now.” He looks out the window and up to the sky. “We’ve lost two hours.”

“We’ve lost _what_?” John asks, pointing the torch at Sherlock.

“ _Two hours,_ John. I swear to you.” He points to his watch, showing the time. “I looked at it, 21:12, and now it’s 23:00.”

“That can’t. No… Sherlock!” He yelps as the agent suddenly rips the torch from his hand and flings his door open, bolting up the road.

“Fuck!” John cries out, blinding searching for the door handle and opening it, taking off after the man.

He runs, but not far, as Sherlock has stopped dead in the street, staring straight down.

“What…”

“Look.” Sherlock says quietly, torch on the road.

John looks down, at the bright yellow ‘X’ in the road. Only a few feet from the car.

“Jesus.” John breathes. “That’s the one that you did just a few days ago.”

Sherlock nods. “People, John. Abductees. They’ve reported unexplained time loss--”

“Oh, come on, Sherlock!”

“Gone!” Sherlock snaps his fingers for effect. “Just like that.”

“What you’re saying isn’t _possible_ , Sherlock. Time can’t just disappear. It’s—it’s a _universal invariant_!”

“For God’s sake John, look around you! How can you explain what just happen!? The light, the rumbling, the car—“

“It can all be explained, Sherlock! It’s just…” John puts a hand to his forehead. “Christ, my head hurts with all of this. There’s just… there’s a scientific explanation for everything.”

“Not in this area code.” He brushes past John as he makes his way to the car.

John glances down at the yellow ‘X’ and then follows.

\------

John sits cross-legged on his motel bed, laptop between his legs.

"Agent Holmes’ insistence of time loss due to unknown forces cannot be validated or substantiated by this witness."

John continues typing. A thunderclap rings out and the power goes out.

“Great.” He mutters.

He stands, fumbling in the nightstand until he comes upon a matchbox, striking and lighting the small tealight by the lamp.

He makes his way into the bathroom, carrying the candle and placing it near the sink. He stretches and scrubs his face, before reaching and stripping off his shirt, rubbing his hair and the back of his neck. When he freezes. And feels two small bumps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love!
> 
> :D


	4. Agendas

Sherlock stretches, hands squared on his lower back as he leans back, hearing a satisfying pop. He bends down again, pencil in hand, tapping the dirt that John had provided around on the table, pushing it into the flickering light of the candle. It’s like broken black obsidian and iced cold. He’s wary to even touch it at this point. Even in the room temperature motel bedsit it hasn’t warmed or thawed. How incredible.

“’It’s not sand. It’s dark.’” He murmurs, dropping the pen to the desk with a clatter.

There’s a knock at the door and he bolts upward, checking his watch which displays just after 4am.

“Who is—“

“Sherlock it’s me.”

He strides the length of the room and swings it open, to see John in a dressing gown staring up at him, eyes wide.

“What happened?” He asks, instantly alert.

“I’m sorry were you—“

Sherlock gives a wave of his hand. “I was awake, what is it?”

“I need you to check something.” The doctor says quickly, fingers tightening on the collar of the gown.

Sherlock motions his hand into the room. “Come in. Come in.”

John enters quickly and drops the dressing gown and Sherlock goes still as he sees the doctor bare-chested, cream pajama bottoms riding low on his hips as he turns, revealing his back. He swallows and then frowns as John brings a hand up to his nape and motions.

“I need you to check.” He breathes deeply. “My neck, can you check please?”

Sherlock crosses the distance and reaches, before hesitating. “Go on then.” John says, voice strained. Sherlock closes the distances, slim fingertips against the soft column of John’s neck. He smoothes the pad of his thumb across, fingers resting against the side, as he feels the raised bumps. He feels the beginnings of a smile spread across his face.

John turns and glances, eyes narrowing. “Well? What is it? What are they?”

Sherlock releases and smiles without teeth. “Mosquito bites.”

“Mosquito—Are you certain?” He asks, voice tight as Sherlock gives a nod.

“Most certain. We both got eaten up a bit I see. They tend to go for O-Positive blood types, very interest-“

“Oh Jesus.” And John completely feels his legs give out right before Sherlock’s arms are catching him, startled.

“You’re shaking.” Sherlock says with realization, feeling the doctor vibrate against him.

“Of course I’m bloody shaking.” He snaps, pulling himself up right. “I thought—Jesus I thought.”

“Here. Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk.” He wants to bark, but it comes out as a frustrating warbled breath.

“You need to sit down. Here.” Sherlock rearranged his palm, cupping John’s arm and leading him, placing him on the end of the bed.

“Christ, I’m sorry.” The doctor gives a self-deprecating grin, relief beginning to flood his system. Sherlock snatches the chair and places it opposite.

“Take your time.” He says as he places his ankle on his knee.

“For a second… Honestly, Sherlock for a second there I believed it. All of it. Scared the absolutely shite out of me. For a second I was _terrified_.” Even as he says it, he’s smiling and shaking his head, as if believing anything of the manner were completely absurd.

Sherlock presses his lips together, calmly assessing.

“I was twelve when it happened.” He begins quietly, John’s head rising in interest, expression suddenly sobering. “My brother was eight. He just… disappeared. Straight out of bed one night. Just gone. Vanished. No note, no phone calls, no evidence of anything.”

He goes silent, and John swallows. “You never found him?” he asks quietly.

Sherlock shakes his head, staring at the ankle in his lap as it were the most fascinating thing. “Tore the family apart. No one would talk about it. There were no facts to confirm, nothing to offer any hope.”

“What did you do?”

“Eventually,” he lifts his gaze to John’s, seeing genuine interest there. “I went off to university. Came back and was immediately recruited by the agency. Seems I have a natural aptitude for applying behavioural models to criminal cases. My success allowed me certain freedoms to pursue my own interests. That’s when I came across these files.”

“These X-Files.” John says, without a hint of sarcasm or mockery.

Sherlock nods.

“You came across these by accident?” John asks.

Sherlock considers. “At first, it looked like a rubbish dump for UFO sightings, alien abduction reports, the kind of bollock that most would laugh at. Sell off to the local tabloid. But I was fascinated. I read all the cases I could get my hands on. Hundreds of them, John. I read everything about the paranormal, the occult and—“ Sherlock stops and glances out the window.

John tilts his head. “What is it?”

“There’s classified government information I’ve been trying to access, but someone has been blocking my attempts to get at it.”

“Who?” John says, sitting up rapt with attention, shivering slightly.

Sherlock glances at the discarded dressing gown on the floor. “Would you like your—“

“I’m fine.” The doctor crosses his arms, hands cupped around his bare bicep. “Please, continue. Who is trying to block you?”

“Someone at a higher level of power. The only reason I’ve been allowed to continue with my work is because I have a connection.”

“Connection? With who? Parliament?”

The agent clears his throat and gives a shrug. “Let’s just say the British government in general."

“And they’re afraid of what, exactly? That, that you’ll leak this information?”

“You’re part of that agenda John.” Sherlock says quietly. ”You know that.”

“No," John says, voice rising. "I’m not a part of _any_ agenda, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stands up and walks around his chair, gripping the top of the back tightly. “You were part of this from the very start. They told you I was the last available, which I know to be a lie. They gave you my name and sent you to me for a reason.”

“What are you saying? That I’ve been set up with you to… What exactly? Sherlock, you’ve _got_ to trust me. I’m here just like you, to solve this.”

“I believe you.” Sherlock says with a grim head nod. “I believe you when you say you believe you aren’t apart of something bigger.”

He steps around the chair and comes to the foot of the bed, kneeling. John straightens but doesn’t pull away.

“I’m telling you this, John, because you need to know, because of what you’ve seen. In my research, I’ve worked closely with a man who’s taken me through deep regression hypnosis. I’ve been able to go into my own repressed memories to the night my brother disappeared. I can recall a bright light outside and a … presence in the room. I was paralyzed, unable to respond to my brother’s calls for help.”

He goes silent and stares at the floor, throat bobbing and his fingers clenching the bedding. John reaches, carefully placing a hand on the agent’s shoulder, rubbing a thumb down the curve.

“Sherlock—“

“Listen to me John, this thing exists—“

“Just—“

“The government knows about it, and I got to know what they’re protecting. Nothing else matters to me, and this is as close as I’ve ever gotten to it.”

“But how do you know—“

Sherlock lifts his body, closing the distance between himself and the man on his bed and connects them, open mouth pressing against John’s. John’s hands rise, catching his shoulders briefly stunned into inaction. Sherlock lunges forward, pushing past the gentle obstacle of John’s hands and pressing him back into the mattress, kissing the sudden inhale of air straight out of the man’s body. John’s throat hitches and Sherlock parts briefly, eyes following John’s in an attempt to assess _I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s happened, this is completely unprofessi--_ before John presses against him, harder, mouths clashing and teeth clicking.

Sherlock growls into John’s mouth, his kissing tipping over from tentative and soft to insistent and firm. The sensation of being fully clothed while John is sprawled half-naked on top of his bed is dizzying and he feels a tug as John’s hands are grasping blindly at his shirt, yanking them out of the confines of his belt.

There’s a part of Sherlock’s brain that he’d always assumed had zero interest in anything remotely sexual, physical or romantic. He’d always observed such dealings in the past with brutalizing clinical detachment. But as John arches up into him, he finds his brain shuttering with a primal urge that would rival most red-blooded men his age. He could vividly envision browbeating them all into submission with the sudden surge of testosterone that floods his body.

“Sherlock,” John groans, hitching his legs higher up Sherlock’s waist. “ _Fuck_ …” He adds in a breath, as Sherlock presses his hips down and rocks against him. He could feel John's erection straining against the thin fabric of his bottoms. He places a hand on John's hip, fingers flexing against his abdomen. 

“John,” he presses a kiss to the man’s throat. “I want—“

With a pitched rattling and blare, Sherlock’s mobile clatters against the end table, startling them both as John suddenly freezes, hands coming back up to Sherlock's shoulders and pushing him off.

Sherlock stares at John as the man wipes his mouth with his wrist, his face and chest flushed. “Better get that…” He says in a puffed breath.

Sherlock manages to rein in the irritated sneer that wants to cross his face as he sits up and reaches for the offending phone that’s managed to skitter halfway across the table. The mobile reads UNKNOWN.

“Hello?” He throws John a look before his mouth presses into a thin line. “What? Who is this? Who—“ He pulls his phone away and glances, the line having gone dead.

“That was some woman… She just said Peggy Carr was dead.”

“Peggy?” John sits up, attentive. “The girl in the wheelchair?”

Sherlock nods, glancing down at his disheveled shirt. “Get dressed. We have an early day.”

**Author's Note:**

> \---
> 
> belladonnaq.tumblr.com


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